


About Barnes

by agentofcarter (izzimb)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, What's new, months later and i'm still awful at tags, ptsd!bucky au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzimb/pseuds/agentofcarter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sergeant Barnes was sent home from his third Afghanistan tour three weeks early. Natasha calls in old friends to help out in recovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Call

Steve stared at the blonde splayed across his studio sofa.

She blinked innocently at him, but he wasn't looking at her face. Her shirt was twisted around her shoulder, and he furrowed his brow, determined to capture the folds and wrinkles exactly correctly. He touched charcoal to toned canvas and pushed the brick into it, searching for the proper placement of strokes of black on dappled sepia. 

"Say, how much longer, Stevie?" she purred.  
He sighed, not looking away from the portrait. "Don't talk, please, I've really got to focus, Ms. Carter."  
She sighed too. Steve absently noticed the look of dismay that passed over her face. She reached down to the buttons on her shirt.  
"Please," his head fell. "Don't. I've already drawn that, and if you release a single button, your entire shirt, which I have yet to draw, will shift and it'll set off proportions."

As he'd expected, she was confused—the phone rang. He sighed, and was feeling a yawn coming on. Ms. Sharon Carter, while beautiful, was awfully boring. Had she struck Steve as the type to make good conversation, he'd have been chatting with her as he drew up the portrait. Instead he let her wallow in her own awkward silence while he drew with earphones in. Rude, maybe, but more productive for him. For all he cared, she could have pouted the entire time and he'd still have drawn that odd smirk she seemed to always wear; Steve expected her boyfriend would have loved it all the same. He reached for his cell, tucked away in the drawers beside his easel.

"Tasha" scrolled across the top of his screen. Why was Natasha calling him? Bucky's return home wasn't for another three weeks.

"Excuse me, I've got to answer this."  
"Alright, I've started to get a crick in my neck anyway." She sat up and rolled her head from side to side. The button she'd reach for popped open. Steve rolled his eyes as he turned away. She'd been desperate to open her shirt from the moment she walked in. It wasn't helping either of them.

"Tash, hey, what's up?" Steve ducked into the hallway leading to his bedroom. "Everything okay?"  
"Hardly, to be honest. He's been sent home early. Anyway, we—I—need help. He's—" She sniffed. "He's not doing well. I really need help watching out for him. It's kind of a mess, I don't know what else to do, he barely eats anymore, I can't sleep because he can't sleep—"  
"Hey, hey, Tasha, calm down. I'm on my way."  
She inhaled deeply, as deeply as possible with the stuffy nose she had, detectable through cell phone, then exhaled. "Thank you. I'm about to call Clint and—Tony, too."  
"That bad?"  
"Yeah."  
"I'll be there in—" Steve remembered Sharon lying across the sofa. "Two-and-a-half hours, probably."  
"Alright. Thank you. Thanks, Steve, really."  
"Of course. Any time, every time. I'll call Tony for you."  
"You're literally the greatest."  
"Tell Buck I'm on my way."

Steve scrolled down his contact list. He locked the screen, figuring the call Tony later. The longer he could put off talking to that self-obsessed, misanthropist genius, the better.

"Ms. Carter," he said, swinging a leg into the studio, "I hate to cut this session short, but I've got a personal emergency to attend to, and we'll have to reschedule."

****

"I used to know a guy named Steve, but that asswad hasn't called me in ages."

Tony squeezed his eyes closed and forced them open again, realizing the mess he'd left on his desk just before he...dozed off some time ago. Blueprints and drafts and dinner party invitations were strewn, crumpled, across the tabletop. His silver sharpie was still in his hand, uncapped.

"Tony, we've gotta visit Natasha and Bucky. She needs help taking care of him. It sounds real bad. I think, personally, that is, his PTSD is getting worse. I think Natasha is in denial about it, but—anyway, they need our help, Tony."  
"What?"  
"Tony, come on. They need—never mind. Are you coming out? I'll give you the address but only if you're coming out to help."  
"Yeah. Yeah. I'm coming. I'll be down there in a couple hours. Who else is coming?"  
"Tash is calling Clint."  
"Alright, I'll be there."

****

"Natasha? What's up?"  
"Hey, um, I don't have much time. I, uhm, I need some help. Bucky just got back from his deployment and—oh—Clint, it's bad. I need help. Steve and Tony are coming out to help and I'd really love it if you could come out and help too. Just for the weekend would be fantastic."  
"Yeah—yeah, of course, Tasha."  
"Thank you, thank you so much. Listen, I don't know if this is too much to ask, but—um—would you mind if I brought my girlfriend along? She's just—I mean, I'd feel bad. Plus, I mean, it's been a while, maybe by the end of all this we'd all be a little closer than—well, before."  
"That's—that's fine, Clint. I'll see you in a few hours."  
"Okay. Thanks, Tash. I'll see you."


	2. Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends come to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm irrevocably sorry this took so long. School sucks.

Steve and Natasha shared a soft glance as she opened the door to him. Opening his arms, he let his duffel bag slide to the porch and she rushed up into his arms. Her face pressed into the cold flesh of his neck; his arms wrapped around under her arms; his hands nearly reached back to the opposite elbow. She was thin. 

"Thank you," she murmured.  
He hummed noncommittally. "Let's get inside."  
"He's at the therapist."

The house was an absolute wreck. Just inside the landing, there were broken—smashed—plates. The sofa's throw pillows were in disarray. A lamp was too close to the edge of the table. The dining room table was covered in mail, probably months' worth of it. The kitchen sink was empty except for a few stacked bowls and Chinese take out containers with utensils soaked in water. The faucet leaked a drop every few seconds. The two shared another glance, a combination of determination and desperation, nostalgia and hope, dread and patience.

They set about cleaning. Steve swept up the plate shrapnel; Natasha cleared the family room of the empty metal cans; Steve wiped down the stained tables; Natasha scrubbed away the sand and dirt from the floors; Steve washed the bowls and put away the cutlery; Natasha fixed the pillows; Steve closed the record player's case and pushed the bins into the corner of the room. They bumped elbows walking in opposite directions. Natasha hummed one song in the other room; Steve sang lowly in the other. They worked in harmony, dancing around each other, ignoring the things to be said but allowing the emotions to pass in thick, syrupy silence.

An hour or so later—the actual lapse of time neither of them bothered to measure, nor did they care to—Natasha's phone buzzed. Bucky's therapist was extending today's session. She'd never heard of such a thing, but she was just about thankful for it. She needed to see everyone first.

"Have you done the bathroom yet?" Steve asked, pointing to the bathroom downstairs. Technically it was the guest bath, but no guests were ever accomodated at the Romanoff-Barnes home.  
"No!" interjected Natasha, even before Steve even finished the question. "Don't—don't go in there."  
Steve dropped the subject.

Cars crackled gravel beneath their tires in the driveway. Steve and Natasha looked out the window. An orange Audi parked behind a Ford sedan.

Tony, dressed in a suit, got out, flashed a peace sign, and stretched unflatteringly. Clint got out, walked around, waved, and opened the passenger door for a tall, tall blonde. She adjusted her fitted blue shirt and smiled at him. Tony took off his sunglasses to throw a vertical glance at her. Steve rolled his eyes.

'He hasn't changed a bit."

Clint said something to the blonde and she nodded. She began to walk up the way, but Clint turned back to shake hands with Tony.

"You look good, bro," said the younger.  
"Thanks. I try. Ah! Don't touch her. She's new." Tony flashed the keys toward Clint and locked the gaudy vehicle before slapping a hand to the other's back.  
"Have you talked to Bucky yet?"  
"No, but I can't wait to ask that fucker why the hell he can't get his shit together."  
Clint stepped back, glaring unmenacingly at Tony. "Um, you're not actually gonna say that to him are you?"  
"Why wouldn't I? Tell me, Barty, why won't I do that?"  
"Because he's—he's fragile. It's not appropriate. That'd be a dick move."  
"Oh, he's 'fragile'? This 6-footer just got back from the Middle-fucking-East and he's fragile? How do you know that? When was the last time you talked to him?"  
Clint, speechless, only shrugged.   
"That's what I thought. What do you want to do, Clint, go this whole weekend tiptoeing around the issue? The  _real_ issue? Pretend like he's not actually a big baby, pretend nothing happened? This is all literally in his head. That's all that there is to it."  
"No—Tony, no. We should—he's got to feel safe. He's got to feel like he can trust his surroundings, and—and—"  
"Oh, oh sure. You know what I think? I think he's going to think it's all bullshit—he's going to  _know_ it's all bullshit, and that he'll see through it. That's what I think."  
"You're—"

"Hey, come on, you two, get in here!" Natasha yelled into the driveway.  
They looked up. Tony grabbed Clint's shoulder amiably. "It's nothing personal, bro. Nice to see you."

Beside the stairs up to the porch, where the brick path met wooden stairs, a sapling was planted. It had a thin but sturdy-ish stem and a few leaves. Natasha looked down at it with a smile. Tony met her eyes; she shook her head. He scoffed discreetly. 

Tony shook hands with Steve at the least. Clint gave a nice halfway hug. Natasha hugged them both. 

"This is such a nice house, Natasha," commented Bobbi, Clint's girlfriend as her eyes wandered across various pictures and paintings around the living room.  
"Thanks," she hummed.  
"Um, if you don't mind, could I ask where the bathroom is?"  
" _Upstairs_ ," both Steve and Natasha exclaimed. Bobbi jumped slightly, but went up the stairs without question.  
"It's the first door on the right," Natasha sighed.

Tony coughed. "So, where's the man of the hour?"   
"He's, um, he's at the therapist."  
He nodded, looking absently at the door of the bathroom. "Sure. Of course he is. Steve, get my back on this, pal, listen: are we just gonna sit around here, what, sing kum ba yah and hold hands?"  
"Whoa, hey, what do you plan on saying to him, Tony? 'Hey, Buck, get your shit together'?"  
" _Thank_ you." Clint runs his hands over his face, through his hair, groaning. "Okay, someone be  _reasonable_ here. I think we should take turns, you know, watching him."  
" _What_? We're gonna fucking  _babysit_ this grown man?"  
"Yeah, kind of. But, you know, casual. Tag in, tag out. Have someone with him at all times."  
"Alright. You first." Tony grabbed the room-temperature beer beside him, cracked it against the coffee table. "How 'bout that?"  
"I'll go first." Natasha said. "I'll tell him, I'll let him know that we're all here to help him."  
"Are we? Can someone tell me what the plan is? What's your  _actual_ plan here, Natasha. Steve? Anything?"  
Steve clapped, breaking the air that began to stale around them. "I need some air. You two, figure something out. I'm gonna pick him up." 

Steve pulled open the door; Natasha and Tony continued to bicker; Clint threw in a laugh and a comment here and there. He pulled the mini sketch book out of his back pocket. He sketched the woods across the road for a few minutes, trying to push out the arguments in the background. His eyes fell on the sapling beside the porch steps. He sat down and began to trace his lines and curves, shadows and areas for highlights. 

He stood up and walked to the car, pulling the keys from his pocket. Time to rescue the hero.


	3. Different Conversations in Different Rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house guests diffuse but tensions don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes I haven't written in a while.

Steve watched Bucky pull his shirt over his head. He saw the scarred lashes across his back, the dramatic contrast from flesh to prosthetic at his shoulder. 

"Got any good news?" Bucky sighs, yanking a blue flannel shirt down over his body. 

"Well, we're all here. That's one thing. I heard Natasha is making some solyanka for dinner." 

Bucky took a breath; Steve could tell he was smiling, though his back was turned. "Yeah. She makes kickass solyanka. I remember between tours I was stuck here for winter. You know me and the ol' cold. One day I was stuck in bed and--" 

He continued on, but Steve could only sit back and enjoy that his friend seemed--even if it was just for right now--happy, content. He flipped through a book on the desk beside where he was leaning. Tugging open the drawer next to his knee, Steve discovered an interminably old banana peel. He tossed it over to the garbage can on his other side.

"--obviously I'd been so full I could barely move--!" He almost seemed to laugh before realizing his current state. As if realizing that he were smiling at an inappropriate time, he dropped the subject. "I mean...then I was off again. Like, a month later. It was barely enough time for it to warm up around here, and I left Nat again."

"Hey, don't--don't say that like it's your fault. You were serving. It wasn't some...some escape, or something, okay?"

Bucky turned to face Steve. His eyes were worn out but he smiled. He sighed, as if to end the conversation symbolically. Steve knew there was always more to be said.

Downstairs, Natasha and Tony stood square in the kitchen. She held a pot and he a pair of tongs. She directed him toward the refrigerator and laundry-listed a series of ingredients to fetch.

"So does he know?"

"Steve? No. I--he--no."

Tony laughed. "I mean Bucky."

Nat dropped her pot into the sink. " _No_."

"Why haven't you told him?"

Nat made a sound, like her lungs were being vacuumed. How thick, how dull could Tony be? "Are you _stupid_? Why would I tell him _now_?" She was stage whispering at this point. She wanted to hit him over the head with her damn ladles.

"Because it's _hi_ \--"

"Don't say it. Don't you dare say it, Tony Stark, or I will drag you out of this house and feed you to the bears in this forest. Utter one more word of it and I can promise you, you will not see the light of day again."

"Hot headed, redhead, back at it again," Tony chuckled. 

She sighed. "Don't tell him, please." Her voice was soft now.

Tony put down the tongs and the cabbage, lifting his arm to drop it gently around her shoulders. "Yeah, little red, I won't."

Steve and Bucky came back through the little corridor back into the kitchen. Nat gave Bucky a kiss, which he wearily but dutifully reciprocated. Tony approached Steve as he went toward the kitchen table.

"Hey, where's the bathroom in here?"

"Use the one upstairs. Trust me."

Tony rolled his eyes and headed toward the door vaguely ajar in the room adjacent. He opened it more and met a sight he maybe wasn't really actually prepared for. He flinched backwards and shut it. He peeked towards Steve, who shook his head with a frustrated look and ducked his way up the stairs.

Bucky was left in the kitchen with Natasha. She felt him, staring, watching, sighing. Waiting. She scurried from one side of the kitchen to the other, desperately trying to shake the feeling of his heavy eyes on her body. He didn't know. He hadn't even been in the downstairs bathroom yet. He wouldn't have gone and checked, even if he wanted to, because Nat said she had a gift in there, and Bucky never spoiled gifts for himself. Then again, Nat had pigeonholed herself again, because she had neither gifts nor an alibi for what he'd see.

"Baby," he whispered. She heard him, though, loud and clear. She rushed over and took the seat beside the head of the table, where he'd sat.

"What is it, _moya lubov_?" She took both of his hands into her own. One molded under her touch and the other, she fit her fingers to. One warm, one cold.

"I'm tired." He paused. "I'm sorry."

"What? No--don't--don't you be sorry, Bucky. I got you. We're okay. Dinner will be ready soon, we'll have some solyanka and we'll go to bed. Okay?" She wrapped her arms around him, somewhere between around his head, or around his neck, and sort of his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School's out, which means I can write as much as I want! ^~^ Comment, kudos, bookmark, subscribe <3


	4. Dinner Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know. Sorry.

Someone had turned on the old record player in the corner of the family room after moving it closer to the dining room. Soft indie by a band no one specific flowed from one corner of the house to another, echoing softer and softer until it decrescendoed and melted in with the soft conversations at the table. Clint returned from the kitchen with the half-emptied pot of the Russian soup.  

"Natasha—! I can't believe you never made this for us when we were living in Brooklyn." Steve groaned as he reached for the bowl at the center of the table to serve himself more soup. "The things this would have done for us in that stupid-ass winter."

"It's really just--never mind. Thanks, Steve."

Tony poked at a strip of cabbage. "Hm."

"What, is this not good for your billionaire ass?" Clint chuckled, half-malicious, half in jest.

" _Clint_ ," Bobbi chastised. "That was--"

"Entirely in character," Tony quipped. "It's not like you know him the same way we do, so it's whatever."

Bobbi was vaguely flummoxed but had no answer, so instead had more soup.

"Don't talk to her like that, Tony, c'mon," Natasha said. 

"All I'm saying is, just because I made a--a--a noise, doesn't mean I don't agree. So fuckin' sensitive."

"Oh yeah?" Clint sat back, raised his eyebrows. "How's your, uh, how's that international conglomerate of yours going, huh?"

Tony sniffed nonchalantly but leaned forward over his food. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Steve and Natasha flicked weary glances toward each other. The latter took a big sip of her wine and Steve leaned away from his refilled bowl. Bucky dutifully continued to scoop the tart soup into his mouth spoonful after spoonful. 

"Oh, you want the subtext?"

"Of _course_  I want the subtext. Don't you know who you're talking to?" Tony clutched at his chest in mock hurt. "Did you forget who I am?"

Clint sighed. Bobbi put a hand on her arm but he continued on. "Alright, fine. So how's life up on your enterprising high horse, uh, looking down on the rest of us and despairing about the decline of our culture?"

Natasha sighed and laughed weakly, putting her face into her hands. Bobbi looked toward her with concern and opened her mouth but Steve cut the air with his hand, signalling for her to stop. He shook his head and watched on, amused at the state of supper: hanging on by bare threads and somehow held together by the vague ties of one seat to another. Tony sat vaguely like a dog protecting his dinner, elbows up onto the cherry mahogany; Clint sat back, body relaxed, but tone of voice on the fence; Bucky was still inhaling his girlfriend's soup; Natasha was still hiding behind her hands but Steve could see the small smile.

"It's comments like those, Clint, that make me despair. I mean, how do we move forward if you just wonder about the past and hope for the best for the future? I mean--"

Steve cut in. "Okay but, sorry, Tony, I'm actually curious too. What's with the merge?" 

"I'm trying to advance my company into the future. Because otherwise--" He let out a noise, either a sigh or a groan, he was frustrated and still clearly wanted to brag about himself. "Otherwise, everything we depend on now becomes what informs future generations of our present and what will be--what will be their history. All we know now is what they will learn next gen, so we have to make it good for them to remember. I don't want to be remembered as a mediocre CEO and I need to merge to change that." He scooped softened meat into his mouth and chewed.

"That's ironic." Bucky nearly laughed.

"Wait, why is that ironic?" Bobbi furrowed her brows. Clint rubbed her shoulder, partially consoling her confusion and partially trying to get her to give up her probing into the enigma that is Tony.

"Because I hate the past. And what I hate more than the past is nostalgia for it."

"Oh."  

Bobbi's voice was small. Smaller than she thought she could feel in a room of friends, or people who used to be friends. Natasha sipped up the last bit of her soup. Steve took her bowl and Bobbi's and cradled it into his own. He stood up and brought them into the kitchen. Clint stood up and followed with his own. Tony sat back, crossed his ankle over his knee and finished his wine in one gulp.

 


	5. Post-Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of Tony being a dick. || Double update, woohoo!!

 "Steve, let me do something." Bucky reached into the sink to help wash dishes. 

" _Nope_." Steve edged him out. The cold water splashed onto his sleeves and he tried not to care.

"Let him do the dishes, Buck. He's compensating for the fact that he can't get a girlfriend." Tony snickered and rolled his cigarette on the table runner of the breakfast area table.

"Oh my gosh, Tony, when did you get so mean? You're so mean."

"Probably the same time your girlfriend graduated high school, so, like, last year?"

"Jeez. Enough about Bobbi, will you? You pick on enough people, quit attacking my girlfriend."

"What a shame. Maybe you should kill yourself."

Bucky pulled his lips in, trying not to laugh.

"The fuck, man?" Steve turned slowly, with an incredulous glare toward Tony, handing a plate to Clint to dry. The latter looked back and forth between the upset Steve and Bucky with the smile bursting through clenched lips.

"Hey, it was a good joke! Even Bucky is laughing!"

 Steve couldn't help but smile--especially with Bucky smiling. The moment passed but it didn't make Steve want to punch Tony in the teeth any less.

In the guest room downstairs, Natasha helped Bobbi set up her and Clint's bed.

"So, how did you and Clint meet?" Nat smiled toward the much younger girl.

"I, uh, I used to work at his gym. We didn't really date until after I stopped working, though. I'd keep going by just to see him, but...yeah."

"Ah. That's cute."

Bobbi sighed and smiled after fixing the last corner of her bed. "Uh--yeah--! Yeah, it's been, uh, great."

Maybe it was just awkward for Natasha, or maybe it was awkward for Bobbi, or maybe it was awkward for both of them. Either way, an unmanageable silence was cast over the room. Neither could break it. Nat wasn't sure if Bobbi was aware that she and Clint had been old flames back in their late high school and early college days (or years). She wasn't about to bring it up, and Bobbi had no reason to. They finished making the bed and joined the others on the back porch.

As Bucky joined Natasha on the wicker sofa, Steve tossed Tony a beer. Natasha pulled her phone from her pocket and snapped pictures of the group. Clint and Bobbi held up their thumbs while she cradled herself into his shoulder. Steve grinned and looked down to laugh at himself. Nat aimed the camera toward Bucky, who had been smiling, but he shook his head and outstretched his arm to lower her cell. 

"So, Steve, how's your studio going?" Bucky opened.

"Yeah, I, uh, heard your pieces are gonna be put in a gallery?" Clint poked after a swig of his Corona.

"Actually, the gallery is mine. A bunch of my portrait pieces and some sceneries are being put together for a gala-dinner thing at the Library." Congratulations were cooed among the guests. "Thanks, thanks. I've got like three left to do and the gallery opens in three weeks."

"So, you've got time?"

He nods, mouth full of chips. Natasha giggled and tried to snap a series of Steve struggling to chew it all without opening his mouth.

"Na _tasha_! Would you cut it out with the pictures?"

"What? _What_  is your problem? So what I wanna take pictures for--for posterity!"

"By what, ruining it in the present?"

"No, Tony, that would be _your job_."

"Alright, girls, cut it out, you're both pretty." Steve tossed a magazine onto the table to break the argument. 

Tony pushed the air towards Steve, as if physically pushing him away from the conversation. "Nat, Nat, lemme ask you something."

She, with unbounding sarcastic excitement, leaned forward and asked, "What?" 

"Are you gonna post them on Facebook? Are you gonna be like, 'oh, while you guys have kids, I'm hanging out with my college buddies!'? Huh? Is that what you're gonna do?"

Instantly, Natasha's smile soured into the dreaded grimace they had all feared in college. It was the look of 'don't talk to me', of 'do you wanna try that again?'; the look that spawned all 'if-looks-could-kill' looks. Steve hurriedly swallowed his Tostitos. Tony leaned back, at first in triumph; Natasha would have seen the split second of an apologetic look, but she was busy fighting tears. Bobbi sat up in immediate concern. Clint held her down by a wrist.

"That was _not_ okay."

She walked inside, leaving a stunned silence and an extremely concerned Bucky. He stood up and on his way in, smacked the back of Tony's head. Steve bolted up from his seated position, ready to separate Bucky and Tony. 

"When I find out what that meant, be prepared for me to kill you."

Steve sat back down with a sigh. Clint set down his finished beer. Tony turned the page of the magazine he had no intentions to read. He sniffed, breaking the silence so abruptly that Clint flinched.

"So, uhm, Bobbi, what do you do?" Steve asked, though everyone left outside was distinctly aware the moment was over.

"I work at the local nursing home for retired and estranged veterans," she started proudly but then grasped the uncanny relevance. "Oh—I didn't mean—I didn't realize—"

A soft, intensely awkward chuckle passed around the group. 

"Maybe Barto's plus-one wasn't such a bad idea after all."

Steve threw a book at Tony.


End file.
